


Culling

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bruce Needs a Hug, Dom Tony, Dom/sub, Hurt Bruce, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Protective Team, Protective Tony, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sub Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:05:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce wakes up with a collar around his neck that he doesn’t remember getting, a note, and Steve quietly telling him that there’s something on the tv that he needs to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Culling

* * *

 

##  _Cull_

**_(Culling, Culled)_ **

  * _The act of a legal, public punishment of a submissive who has committed a crime against society. The severity of the punishment is left to the discretion of elected officials and the governing body. Should the submissive be in a binding contract with a Dominant, the Dominant is permitted to be in attendance to allow relief and breaks to their submissive, should they so choose. Should the submissive be in a binding contract with a Dominant, the Dominant is allowed the indisputable right to substitute themselves in their submissive’s place for punishment. This is optional. See, **Culling Substitution, Dominant Rights, Industrial Designation Law** …_



 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the controversy of the fall of SHIELD, the government still seems to trust Captain America.

 

Because though they send a handful of officials to the Tower to supervise, they let Steve be the one to attach General Ross’ device to Bruce’s neck.

 

In the Tower, complacent in Steve’s vicinity, the Hulk only grumbles uncertainly in the back of Bruce’s mind, ironically trusting in the captain not to do Bruce any harm, to keep him safe from the strangers who surround them. One of the Dominant’s hands curls around the back of his neck as if to brace him as the other brings the device closer, and Bruce leans into the reassuring touch. He isn’t allowed to look Steve in the eyes right now, and selfishly he’s glad for it. He hates himself for putting the kindhearted man in this type of situation in the first place; he’s not sure he would be able to bear watching those eyes fill with unfounded guilt at what Bruce’s actions have lead him to do.

 

Steve’s fingers suddenly squeeze, distracting him enough that he doesn’t feel the tiny, hooked needles bite into his skin, piercing through muscle like the hungry fangs of a rabid dog.

 

The chemicals begin working almost instantly – Ross and his scientists are ever efficient when it comes to Bruce and the Hulk they claim to own. His knees become lifeless in a sudden, overwhelming urge to kneel, and it’s only his captain’s quick reflexes that keep him off the ground.

 

The Other Guy is utterly silent.

 

“Good,” one of the officials says pleasantly. “It works. The creature will be completely pliant when transport comes in the morning. Well done, Captain.”

 

“Seven AM, Captain Rogers,” voices another, firm and authoritative.

 

Bruce manages to hold his distressed whimper until the sounds of their steps become faint.

 

Steve gathers him closer and just holds him, his endless stream of whispered “I’m sorry” becoming static to his ears.

 

* * *

 

“You look like you’re drunk, Doc,” Clint offers quietly when they step into the elevator.

 

Bruce is still in Steve’s arms, though this time he’s cradled, and his feet feel a little strange, dangling above the ground. Like the Earth has forgotten about him, like it won’t be able to hold him up anymore, like he’s worse than non-existent. The irrational fear pulls at him, licks up his chest like heartburn, lights every nerve up to partake in a frenzied, panicked dance.

 

But the drug pulsing out through the device dulls the terror before it can reach the Hulk, who for the first time since his birth, is ignorant to Bruce’s needs.

 

“I feel drunk,” he acknowledges to the other sub slowly, the words tasting funny on his tongue as he says them out loud. Not-exhaustion lets his head fall back against Steve’s chest – the rhythmic thumping of the younger man’s heart sounds loud and angry – it’s nice. “I don’t like being … drunk. Bad things happen.”

 

Bruce can’t really see Clint’s eyes. He thinks he might feel them, though, under the immediate, comforting tightening of Steve’s arms.

 

“I know, buddy.”

 

* * *

 

An enraged Thor is pretty damn funny when you’re intoxicated. Or maybe only due to intoxication.

 

“We tried to get hold of you.” In the media room, Steve is attempting to placate the battle-ready Asgardian. At least, Bruce assumes he’s battle-ready. He’s holding the hammer. “They didn’t exactly give us a lot of head’s up.”

 

Laid out on the couch, Bruce’s head is on Natasha’s lap. Her fingernails feel wonderful as they scrape along his scalp, and he appreciates the calmness in her movements.

 

“Less than twenty-four hours, actually,” Bruce can hear Clint add from somewhere behind him. “I think we can all agree that _that_ was intentional.”

 

“There is no honor in this,” Thor snarls. Asgard apparently lacks the order of Dominants and submissives, but the prince has always exuded dominant tendencies – the rage in his voice makes Bruce instinctively shiver. “To attack a man in such a manner as this … _Culling_ , in punishment of crimes he is not accountable for.”

 

 _I am, though,_ Bruce thinks. _It was me. Don’t any of you understand?_

 

“On Earth, Bruce is a submissive before he’s a man,” Natasha says evenly from above him. Her movements do not change pace or direction. “By our laws, this is … justified.”

 

“And you would uphold these laws?” Thor demands. “You would watch your shield-brother suffer at the hands of those who claim superior power over him, allow it because of a misunderstanding?”

 

“It would be different if he had a Dominant,” Clint cut in again. He sounds … tired. Natasha should really be holding him instead, but Bruce isn’t sure that he can stand long enough to move for the other to take his place. It’s a selfish, terrible thing. He’s not a good person. “They’d have to be more lenient, take breaks, allow him some comfort-.”

 

“They’d be able to take his place,” Natasha finishes softly. Her fingers pull at his hair a little. “The Dominant in a contracted relationship is afforded the legal right to substitute themselves in their submissive’s place in a public Cull. A leftover from the 20s, when Dominants were held accountable for all of their submissives’ actions. It’s not exercised nearly as often as it used to be, but it’s still allowed.”

 

Bruce tenses.

 

“I remember,” Steve inputs quietly. He doesn’t seem nearly as tall now that Thor is no longer as close to the edge as he had been, like he’s drawn in on himself. “It was starting to become optional by the 30s, but it was still mostly done. Any time there was a Cull in Brooklyn, it’d be in the papers, like an invitation to a public hanging or something. One time my neighbor stepped in for her sub after he stole some bread from a market. She sent out invitations.” He smiles a little; it looks sad.

 

“It is clear then, what we should do,” Thor proclaims. “Natasha and Clint are already bound, but that still leaves myself, Steven, and the Man of Iron. One of us could enter one of these contracts with Banner-.”

 

Steve is shaking his head. “I’m not-.”

 

“You can’t,” Clint interrupts. He’s moved to stand beside the couch, and Bruce can see out of the corner of his eye that the other submissive is leaning in toward Natasha. “A contract with you wouldn’t be recognized since you’re not exactly human. Steve is a national icon, there would be a damn uprising if he was pulled onto a Culling platform. And the government would take any excuse to get to Stark, a Cull with him would be a million times worse than anything they could do to Bruce. Frankly, we can’t afford that.”

 

“Banner is no more expendable than Stark,” the Asgardian grumbles. There are livewires breaking and igniting under Bruce’s skin, just shy of too much to set off the device. “I have no doubt that his honor would-.”

 

 _“No.”_ The denial comes straight from his own mouth; heavy on his tongue but moving easily. Natasha’s fingers finally still; the room goes quiet in surprise. He says it again. _“No._ Not Tony. Not … you. Not anyone. I … deserve. My fault. _Mine_.” _No one else will get hurt because of me,_ his mind protests. _No one_. Especially not Tony.

 

The Other Guy manages a weak stirring at the thought before the device gives a particularly strong pulse, silencing him yet again.

 

Thor’s eyes land on him, deep and sorrowful. He feels no shame in this. “Doctor Banner-.”

 

“Well, this looks like a load of fun.”

 

Bruce almost rolls off of the couch at the sound of the sarcastic words spoken at normal volume.

 

“ _Tony_ ,” he whispers, body almost vibrating in underwhelming joy. Natasha’s free hand finds his hip, keeps him from sinking to the floor.

 

“Come over here,” she snaps at Tony. “He’ll kneel if he stands up, it wouldn’t be consensual-.”

 

“Yes, Agent Romanoff, I actually do understand that, thank you.” A warm, rough hand travels lightly along the bend of his exposed arm, the only warning Bruce gets before Tony’s face pops into his vision, close and utterly relaxed. The familiar brown eyes of the man who has become one of his best friends is such a welcome sight that Bruce melts against the couch (and Natasha) under the pure relief of it. “Hey, big guy. How’s the druggie life doing for you? Better or worse than the joys of your brownies?”

 

Bruce can hear someone’s noise of disapproval, but it doesn’t matter. The sensation of the familiar teasing makes him smile. “I’d rather have weed,” he intones solemnly. Tony’s eyes crinkle as he smiles; the expression of genuine humor on the Dominant’s face eases the remnants of the sparking nerves that the drug hadn’t quite managed to kill.

 

“I’ll bet.” The hand on his arm rubs softly, absentminded as all of Tony’s touches are. “I finished getting your room ready; lit up all those smelly candles you like so much. How about we head up there, huh? Lay down for a bit, maybe get some sleep? I’ll stay with you, unless, you know, you want someone else.”

 

Part of Bruce, somewhere small and muffled as if it’s locked away in a small windowless room, wants to say no – the sooner he lays down, the sooner he will go to sleep, and the sooner he goes to sleep, the sooner he’ll wake up to cruel hands and the emptiness of the Culling platform. But that part is so easily overwhelmed and lost to the desire to just lay down in the comfort of the bed he’s been able to call his own for the past two years, to enjoy the softness of the mattress and the blankets, to listen to Tony’s endless babble about whatever comes to the genius’ mind until he does fall asleep.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, blinking slowly. Hell, maybe he’s tired. “You. Yeah.”

 

Tony’s face stays smiling. “Okay, buddy. Okay. Steve’s going to have to carry you-.”

 

“ _You_ ,” Bruce protests.

 

“-but I’ll be right behind you. Hey, shh. I’m not leaving you, Bruce. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

The first time Bruce had seen a Culling, he had been seven years old. It had interrupted Saturday morning cartoons.

 

The sub had been jerked onto the stage by a dog chain attached to a leather collar almost as wide as her neck. Years later, he can still remember how terrified she had looked as she had gazed around the gathered crowd of leering spectators. She’d been shaking so bad that she had almost fallen over countless times before they’d even blindfolded her.

 

She’d cried out for her Dominant as they’d beaten and degraded her – a Dominant who hadn’t been present. By the end, she’d been so ruined, so desperate, that at the first sign of kindness from one of the Keepers, in classic good-cop bad-cop routine, had made her melt. They had petted her, praised her, _promised_ her, and then they had laughed at her and started it all over again.

 

He doesn’t remember what her trespass had been. He does remember her breaking.

 

His room smells like sandalwood, walls soothingly alive with the lights of the flickering flames of the candles, and it’s more calming than anything the device can do. Yet he feels more awake than he has since it was placed.

 

In the soft cradle of the bed, he’s tucked up against Tony, who isn’t touching him so much as just holding him. Nothing sexual, nothing deceitful, nothing wrong. And Tony is quiet in the way not many people know that he can be, the way he usually is with Bruce when Bruce thinks he wants to talk, in the lab or the workshop or over whatever meal they end up deciding to break from science long enough to eat – like Tony just _knows_.

 

“Thirteen people died because of me.” He swallows as he says it, the device pulling a little at his neck as he does; he doesn’t really acknowledge that pain.

 

“A lot of people lived though, too, because of you.” Tony doesn’t say it as an argument. “A lot more than would have, if you hadn’t been there.”

 

“How do you explain that to surviving family members, though?” The dance of the lights on the walls is captivating. He’s never lit so many candles before. “Lives were saved that wouldn’t have been without me, but ones that probably would have been safe were lost because I can’t stay in control. That’s comforting.”

 

“You don’t know that they would have been safe.”

 

“They would’ve had more of a chance, at least.”

 

They lay there in silence for a while before Bruce finally calls him on the secret they’ve been dancing around for too long.

 

“You’ve been trying to Court me.”

 

Tony laughs against him, soft and startled. It almost makes him smile. “Wow. I honestly didn’t think you’d noticed. Six months and you didn’t say a word about it.”

 

 _Because you deserve better than me_. “I was waiting for you to come to your senses,” he replies dryly. “Realize what a bad sub I’d make for you. Tony Stark deserves someone capable of giving as good as he gets, someone who will still be obedient. Someone he can beat the ass of without having to worry about them turning into a, quote, “giant green rage monster” and killing them.” He winces almost immediately – killing. He’s extremely capable of killing.

 

“Tony Stark deserves a sub who hates him,” Tony quips back immediately. He snuggles a bit closer; Bruce lets him, frowning at the words. “A sub who makes him feel as inadequate as he actually is.”

 

They play that game for a while.

 

* * *

 

Bruce doesn’t have a right to be scared.

 

But when the clock strikes one in the morning, and Tony stays quiet a breath long enough for Bruce to focus on the time, the spike of fear can’t be held back. It’s sharp, violent – enough that the Hulk immediately wakes up from the drugged slumber keeping him down.

 

The device beeps warningly – a first – and a wash of cold numbness sweeps through his body in rapid fervor. Even though he’s on the bed, the room spins.

 

“Bruce?”

 

He’s been tied down on Ross’ table before, surrounded by scientists and doctors who had brought him pain.

 

“Bruce? It’s okay, hey. I’m here. Bruce?”

 

But he hadn’t been beaten since his father. Hasn’t been torn down and left on the ground to try and pull himself back together.

 

He knows he deserves to be Culled. Thirteen people, ranging in ages of sixty-seven to five (babies!) are dead because he hadn’t been able to control the Hulk in battle. Dead because of him. He deserves to be hurt.

 

He doesn’t want to be, _he doesn’t want to be._

 

The device beeps again, and another river douses him. He feels high and solid and lifeless all in one.

 

Something hot is touching his cheek.

 

“Don’t cry, buddy.” Tony.

 

His eyes track sluggishly to the face hovering over his. He’s not being pinned. Tony … isn’t pinning him. His friend is just … there, no longer smiling. Which is sad. Bruce likes Tony’s smile.

 

“-scared,” he croaks, feels and doesn’t feel the flash of guilt at the flinch that briefly disfigures the Dominant’s face. “…Tony.”

 

Another pulse from the device, and Tony is pulling away.

 

_Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go!_

 

“Shh.” He whines as the warmth of the other man leaves the bed. “Fuck. Damn it, I - Big guy, I need you to do something for me. Can you? Can you do something for me?”

 

Bruce struggles to push himself up, to follow. _Anything_. “Tony?” _Anything._

 

“Get off the bed.”

 

“I…” There’s a reason he’s not supposed to. He wants to – the desire to do so is undeniably strong. He wants to do what Tony is saying, he wants what comes after. But he shouldn’t … there’s a reason … He pushes himself up a bit more.

 

“Trust me,” Tony pleads, and it sounds too far away. “ _Trust_ me, Bruce. Get off the bed. I’ve got you. I’m right here, I promise. Just get off the bed.”

 

He doesn’t want to be hurt.

 

“Bruce. Get off the bed.”

 

It feels like flying when he swings his knees over the side; he feels every fiber of the carpet when his feet touch the floor. For the second that he is able to stand, he feels like nothing. And he should crumble; fall to the ground like a broken doll from cut strings.

 

But when his knees slam would-be painfully onto the floor, he doesn’t feel the need to fall any further. His body morphs instinctually into a submissive pose, and it feels right.

 

Why hadn’t he wanted to do this?

 

A hand, warm and not-quite shaking, wraps around the front of his neck, and Tony speaks.

 

“Good boy.”

 

* * *

 

“… I can make him something. Eggs. Toast …”

 

“…He won’t want to eat …”

 

“… He’ll need something. That drug has to have fucked him up …”

 

“… not to mention…”

 

“Bruce?”

 

Bruce starts awake at the weight of something hot and heavy on the top of his head.

 

“Easy, it’s just me.” That’s … Steve’s voice. Steve … is in his room? Is Bruce even in his room? “I’m sorry, I know you’re tired, but I need you to come downstairs with me, okay?”

 

Downstairs?

 

He blinks rapidly. His glasses aren’t on his face. Where – Oh.

 

It’s morning.

 

“Are they here?” He asks. He had thought it would have been the Keepers coming up for him. They’re letting Steve do all sorts of things. “Steve?”

 

“Please come with me, okay?” The captain sounds so uncertain; he’s too good of a man for this. Something unusual stirs in Bruce’s chest as he reaches blindly for his glasses.

 

His fingers connect with crinkling paper as they find his frames, curling around it instinctively as he pulls them both toward his face.

 

 _ **I’m** **sorry**_ , the paper reads simply under his squinted eyes – nothing more comes up when he pulls on his glasses. That's it. _ **I’m sorry.**_

 

He sits up.

 

Something thin and cool slithers around his neck, and reflexively he grabs at it.

 

The feeling that envelops him at the feel of a small, heavy padlock in the center of a chain is foreign. Sickeningly thrilling.

 

_(“Bruce. Get off the bed.”)_

 

“No.” It escapes his mouth without permission.

 

He can see Natasha and Clint behind Steve.

 

_(Kneeling. Gentle hands sweeping through his hair, his head resting against a cotton-covered thigh. “I won’t let them hurt you, buddy. I promise.”)_

 

“Where’s Tony?” He stands, too quickly. His heartrate rockets, and the device is still in his neck.

 

“Bruce-.”

 

_(Whimpering as a collar, fine and willing, is clasped around his neck)._

 

“Steve. _Where’s Tony?”_

 

A beep followed by the drugged current from hours before. He stumbles right into Captain America’s waiting grip.

 

“I need you to come downstairs with me, Bruce,” Steve repeats quietly. “There’s something on tv you need to see.”

 

_(“Good boy.” Lips against his temple. “Good boy, Bruce.”)_

 

* * *

 

Steve coaxes him downstairs with a firm hand and gentle words and the promise to see his friend.

 

His Dominant.

 

“He and Pepper pushed the contract through after you went to sleep,” Natasha says from some direction. Thor and Clint, present, are quiet. “Stark’s lawyers are the best. Your contract is legal and sound.”

 

Bruce burrows into Steve’s side and doesn’t look away from the tv, where the Culling platform, complete with a crowd of eagerly hungry, smug spectators buzzes with anticipation. There’s a bench and a post on the stage and nothing more.

 

The ticker across the bottom of the screen reads _TONY STARK TO BE CULLED IN PLACE OF submissive._

 

Whether it’s subconscious or some ancient cultural instinct, a Dominant who takes their submissive’s place in punishment is usually not treated as severely. But this is Tony Stark against a legal body that has been forced for years to tolerate him, given free reign and the excuse of a taking out a punishment intended for a dangerous submissive they already hate, on a Dominant who has admitted to being responsible for that submissive.

 

The noise on the tv suddenly goes eerily silent as the sound of doors creaking open wails across the speakers.

 

Bruce forces himself to watch as a Keeper, dressed sharply in suit and tie and wearing a large, pleased smile, tugs sharply at a rope. Watches as Tony, already blindfolded and stumbling (he hates that. Tony hates sensation deprivation. It kills him. How many times have battles nearly gone wrong, when the image feed in the Iron Man helmet cut out? How many panic attacks has Bruce rushed to stop in the lab when a power surge cuts the lights?), is intentionally tripped onto the platform that Bruce should be on.

 

On the screen, to anyone who doesn’t know him, Tony looks cocky. He’s smirking, rolling his shoulders as well as he can with his hands bound in bracers behind his back. He says something inaudible that makes a scattering of people laugh. The submissive tenses. Carefully, Steve cuddles him closer.

 

“Easy, my friend,” Thor murmurs, though whether it’s to him or Tony, Bruce doesn’t know.

 

They would have broken Bruce.

 

The device continues to steadily beep. It’s numbing the Hulk, but Bruce can still think.

 

He flinches as a different Keeper approaches Tony, runs a gentle hand along his back and leans in to whisper something in his ear – only that Keeper and the people in this room can see the way the genius leans just barely, unwittingly, into the touch.

 

For what Bruce has done, they will _destroy_ Tony.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on [tumblr](http://ashnapalm.tumblr.com/), in answer to a prompt from [seekingsquake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingsquake)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095421) by [CrumblingAsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh)




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